


Pygmalion

by Glishara



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-12
Updated: 2010-10-12
Packaged: 2017-10-12 15:24:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/126346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glishara/pseuds/Glishara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The transformation from Lady Donna to Lord Dono does not happen quite as easily as Szabo had envisioned...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pygmalion

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: "Vorkosigan, Donna Vorrutyer and Armsman Szabo, Armsman Pygmalian."

He had not considered the real implications of what Lady Donna was doing until after the surgery was completed.

When she had approached him, in those dark hours after Count Vorrutyer's death, and he had pledged himself to her in words barely short of an armsman's oath, he had thought he understood. They were to go to Beta Colony. Lady Donna would become Lord Dono, and Lord Dono would claim his right to the Vorrutyer Countship.

But the surgery was over, now. And Lord Dono was still Lady Donna.

Her hair was shorter, and she had lost the feminine curves which had drawn so much masculine attention, but she was still Lady Donna. He had never considered before what made a man or a woman. He would need to learn fast.

#

"The first step, my lord, will be to grow your beard."

"A beard?" Lord Dono ran a hand over his jaw. "I always deplored men with beards. It seems half laziness and half boasting. And they make scratchy kissers."

"Nevertheless," Szabo said firmly. "A beard makes an immediate statement. It dismisses all gender ambiguity and categorizes you as male in the eye of the beholder. Once you have been categorized, it will be harder for men to shift you to a new category."

Lord Dono sighed. "A beard. All right."

"And lower the register of your voice. You will need to practice until it comes naturally."

"Oh, joy. Poetry recitations again. It will be just like my schoolgirl days."

#

"Walk with longer strides, my lord."

"Are we running late?" Lord Dono glanced at his chrono, then up at Szabo, a question in his eyes.

"No, my lord. But your gait is too feminine. Your steps are short and quick. You need more confidence in your motions. You no longer need to fit your motions around the motions of men. Move decisively. Let your legs swing more. Trust to the rest of the world to flow around you."

Lady Donna – Lord Dono – knit her ( _his_ ) forehead. "Do not purse your lips like that," Szabo warned. Lord Dono immediately relaxed his features, and lengthened his stride.

"Let your arms swing a bit more," Szabo advised, pacing along beside him toward the clinic.

#

"Watch your eyes, my lord."

"What was I doing?" Lord Dono murmured as they moved through the orbital transfer station.

"You are looking at the wrong people," Szabo replied quietly. "Make eye contact with other men; don't avoid anyone's gaze. Don't seek understanding in the women."

"Was I doing all of that?" Lord Dono seemed faintly amused by the assessment.

"You have done so before, my lord. Remember: your gaze is a tool. Meet challenge with challenge, respect with respect. Everything you can see, you can own. Claim it visually. Check your reflexes. Be aware of what you are saying with your eyes."

They walked on for a few minutes in thoughtful silence.

"And, my lord?"

"Yes, Szabo?"

"Stop looking at that officer's rear."

"Spoilsport."

#  
"Don't _do_ that in public."

"Sorry Szabo." The voice's pitch plunged again to its practiced masculine depth, and Lord Dono moved the flowers away from his face. "Couldn't resist. I mean, it's _Ivan_."

Szabo's shrug conceded the point, but not the issue.

"I'll control myself from now on, I promise." Lord Dono reversed the flowers in his grip and swept them down to his side as though holding a spear, and came to a shoulders-back, feet-apart posture of quasi-military attention.

"Better," said Szabo judiciously. Much better, he thought. Lord Dono could handle Barrayar.

Could Barrayar handle him?"


End file.
